After his time at the gym, Mike stayed up late Friday night pondering the possibilities of mindvasting. Their relative skill levels had been comparable enough that they made good training partners, but Jimmy had always been better than him on their feet while Mike had always been better on the ground. After only a week of training in a vasted state, Jimmy had exceeded his grappling skill level. Perhaps the cause of the difference came down to Jimmy being better than him at vasting after concentrating on a single talent. Or maybe Mike's advantage on the ground had never been all that firm to begin with, simply an artifact of more time on the mats, something that would have eventually expired over time as his training partners caught and surpassed him.

That second possiblity would not leave his mind. For almost half his life now, the compass at the center of his existence had been training at the gym. It was the only thing he truly wanted to do, and also the only thing he managed to be any good at. The detritus of his existence had only ever had two pure things in it: fighting and Susie. One of those had been put into the ground after a closed casket viewing. The other . . . Mike couldn't help but wonder if he had ever been really good at anything, other than being a miserable fuck-up.

He exited his bed early Saturday morning, a fierce flame kindled within his mind. Whether it would prove productive or self-destructive, he couldn't guess. All he knew was it demanded release with a manic intensity.

No breakfast. Mike put on running shoes and began running laps around the block in the predawn darkness. After ten laps, he came back inside to shower and start working with his talents. Up first was kinetic manipulation. Without vasting his mind, Mike levitated items of silverware individually and did something with them almost like juggling. Propel a fork or spoon upwards into an arc, slow its descent with an area effect, then toss it back towards the ceiling. The clatter of metal on linoleum flooring filled the apartment, prompting a shout from Varanelli about washing anything that hit the floor before it went back into the drawer.

He kept at it for an hour, beads of sweat forming on his head from the strain of prolonged concentration. The next phase of training involved 'shaving' his face with the teleotic talent. Without nous to enhance his mind, the task proved slow and exhausting. Segments of beard stubble dropped from him, spontaneously severed at the point where they emerged from his skin. Or at least that was the plan. In actuality, they broke apart at random spots, leaving his face a patchy mess of hairs at short, intermediate, and long lengths. He went through the process over his entire face seven times before he judged the results good enough.

Then he texted a quick message to Srinivas about their lesson, who responded immediately with an offer to come to Mike's place.

"Hey, Roomie?"

"What is it, Ski?"

"Srinivas is coming over for his lesson."

A groan came from the other room. "So you're chasing me out? My name is on the lease."

"I'm not kicking you out. Just giving you advance warning."

"So I can hide in my bedroom until he leaves?"

Mike walked out to face Varanelli, arms crossed in what he hoped looked like a reasonable stance. "I don't know what your deal with him is. He has a harmless crush on you."

She began counting reasons off on her fingers. "He has nothing in common with me. Every conversation consists of awkward silences and questions I'm not comfortable answering. He's slightly shorter than me. He dresses like a twelve year old. If I don't concentrate when he talks, the accent confuses me. That's five good reasons to avoid him. Oh, and number six, he is oblivious when I try ending a conversation with him. I'm just not interested in your foreign friend, Ski."

Mike shrugged and turned away, then thought better of it. He came to plant himself between Varanelli and the television. "You asked my advice a while back about what you do wrong in relationships."

"And I think we both agreed you weren't the best person to ask."

"Well, I have an answer."

Varanelli rolled her eyes. "Well, I think my moment of weakness has passed and I'm no longer soliciting opinions from people who haven't been on a date in multiple years."

"Just hear me out, alright?"

"Go for it, Ski. Drop some of your wisdom on me."

Mike shrugged off her sarcasm and took a steadying breath. "You always go for guys who aren't into you." Judging by Varanelli's flinch, his point had enough truth to it to sting, so he continued. "You make a damn fool of yourself trying to please damn fools when you aren't what they want. It's asymmetrical. They got all the power. Right?"

"Asymmetrical. That's a big word for you. Could you go into more detail about how I'm inferior to everyone I date?"

"Don't be dramatic about it," he said. "There's plenty of guys who go gaga for ladies like you. For whatever reason, you chase after the ones who aren't into you. All I'm saying is maybe you ought to switch up your dating strategy. Make a guy do the chasing for once. Doesn't have to be Srinivas. But . . . he would wine and dine you like you're a princess. That's all I'm saying."

Varanelli's mouth twisted up. "So you think Greg Smith is better than me?"

Mike smacked his face. "What the hell, Varanelli? I've made it clear a million times that Smith is a weak, pathetic, man-child hipster waaay below your level."

"Obviously you think he's better than me if . . . ."

"Smith thinks that Smith is better than Varanelli. I think you're worth ten of that tool."

"And how do you know what Smith thinks about me?"

"I know there are a bunch of guys chasing you and Smith ain't one of them." Mike punched the wall. "God damn it, Varanelli, now I need a drink."

"Oh, right, because you have things so bad," she said. "You have three powers you need to train and Marius throwing money at you so you don't have to work a dead end job anymore. Boo hoo, poor Ski has it so rough."

Mike marched to the fridge, yanked the door open, and surveyed the less than desirable options briefly before slamming it shut again. Mentally he timed the trip to the closest beer distributor, trying to determine if he could make it back before Srinivas showed. Jaw clenched, he hardened his fist with teleos and punched the wall again, hard this time. "Well, believe it or not, I'm under a lot of pressure. And I might be an alcoholic. So, yeah, Varanelli, things have been a little difficult lately, thanks for asking."

"Like all the times you asked how I was doing after Marius disappeared?"

"What? Don't tell me you bought into Marius' pickup artist lines."

"Never mind, Ski. I don't want to have a conversation about feelings with someone who doesn't even have them."

He punched the wall again.

Varanelli's glare softened incrementally. "I didn't mean that."

"Whatever. I can go somewhere else with Srinivas."

"You know, you're a shit replacement for Susie," she said. "I don't know if it's because you're a man or if it's because you're . . . well, you."

"Susie can't be replaced," he muttered.

After a moment, the sound of a car horn intruded. Srinivas liked to draw attention to his convertible any way he could. Mike nodded to the door. "He'll be here in seconds. Do you want me to lead him away?"

Varanelli groaned and covered her eyes with both hands. "Set me up with your weird friend."

"What?"

"I am not going to say it twice, Ski."

The door opened to admit a sharply dressed Srinivas, whose eyes immediately sought out Varanelli.

"Good news, boss, Varanelli is looking for someone to take her out tonight."